


der untergang

by schmerzerling



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drug Use, Exhibitionism, M/M, Masturbation, Semi-Public Sex, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 09:55:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13211322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schmerzerling/pseuds/schmerzerling
Summary: Dean Smith fires the useless stoner down in tech support. Only it doesn’t really—work.





	der untergang

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PrettyMessedUpSituation (MarcelinesNightosphere)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarcelinesNightosphere/gifts).



> This was written for the Team TrashBrigade Secret Santa Exchange for my beautiful amazing friend [Ash](http://prettymessedupsituation.tumblr.com/). I love you, friend. I hope you like it!

**Wednesday, 9 am**

“You’re really fired this time.” Dean says, running his fingers through Novak’s hair. “For real, for real fired.”

Novak hums. It sends shockwaves of pleasure all up and down Dean’s spine, and he wouldn’t say it weakens his resolve so much as it douses the poor tiny flickering candle of his resolve with a firehose.

Novak may be a terrible tech support guy, but he sucks a mean cock.

The polo doesn’t do him any favors—guy’s a total winter, the yellow wreaks havoc on his whole complexion. But it’s okay, because as it is now, he doesn’t have to look at the whole fashion travesty that is the Sandover tech support uniform while Novak hoovers up his dick under Dean’s desk. In fact, he doesn’t have to do anything but stare slack-jawed at his computer monitor and convince any passerby that he’s writing the most rapturous expense report known to man and not shooting his wad down the tech support stoner’s throat. He sees Zachariah walk by the window. Sees him give a thumbs up. Dean gives a thumbs up back. Under the desk, Novak gives his balls a little tug and Dean spills into his waiting mouth.

“I.” He pants. “I really mean it this time.”

“I know you do, babe.” Dean hears him smack his lips. “Do I detect a hint of—cayenne?”

 

**Tuesday, 2 pm**

Zachariah pops his head into Dean’s office sometime after lunch. He says, “Smith,” then he whistles like he’s calling a dog, jerking his head out the door so urgently it looks like he’s about to pull a muscle. And it’s not like Dean didn’t expect this. He did. It’s not like no one was gonna notice. He just sort of...hoped they would overlook a whole extra person on payroll.

Zachariah doesn’t say anything once Dean is in the hall. He continues to not say anything while he leads Dean down the convoluted, marble-tiled corridors. He doesn’t even say anything while they’re were alone in the elevator as it glacially descends nearly twenty floors. He doesn’t say anything until they’re outside at the tech support office door, looking in on a sea of yellow shirts and tiny office cubes.

“Tell me, Smith,” Zachariah says. “Do you see anything out of the ordinary? Anything at all?”

He’s tempted to point out the spot of mustard on Zachariah’s blue tie, or the matching spot at the corner of his smug mouth, but that isn’t out of the ordinary at all. It’s pretty commonplace for Zachariah to point out the deficiencies of others while he looks like a hot mess himself. Dean straightens his own immaculate tie and just barely keeps his lip from curling. He decides to play dumb instead.

“Uh, no, sir. Nothing unusual.”

“Really? Because I see at least one person in there that doesn’t belong.”

It’s not exactly Where’s Waldo. Of all the yellow shirts, there’s one that’s untucked. Of all the tiny cubes, there’s one that’s an absolute mess of junk food wrappers, pill bottles, paraphernalia. And of every single person here, there’s exactly one that makes Dean want to get on his knees and _beg._

Zachariah waggles his eyebrows, waggles his fingers emphatically toward the office at large, waves his arm with office-appropriate grandiosity. Dean squints like he’s looking at some far-off mountaintop instead of the stoned slob in cube ten.

“Novak, Smith. Novak. I told you to fire him.”

“Yeah, you—” Dean bites his lip. “Okay. Okay, here’s the thing—” Dean looks for a better excuse than the truth, because the truth isn’t even an excuse at all.

Zachariah once told him that if he _ever_ wanted to see the Senior VP of Sales (Great Lakes Division), he had to work better with people. He had to be a team player. What he really meant was, he had to learn to do all the HR dirty work that Zachariah doesn’t like doing. Most of his life now is spent doing the work Zachariah doesn’t like doing, and Dean’s fairly convinced he’s only going to get the new job once he’s absorbed the entirety of Zach’s job, too. Firing people was one thing he never thought he’d have to deal with, because Dean’d always thought that ruining some poor sod’s week was one of the only ways Zach could get his rocks off anymore.

Zachariah cups his hand to his head as if to say, _I’m all ears,_ in the most condescending way he can muster.

Dean says, “Here’s the thing. He—uh—told me not to. Fire him.”

Zachariah looks at him like he’s tied his tie with the full windsor instead of the half. That is to say, he looks like he’s come unhinged.

“He told you _what_?”

 

**Monday, 10 am**

“Nah.”

Dean straightens the corporate toy on his desk—the tiny sand garden with the tiny sand rake and the tiny meditation stone. He smooths a hand down the silk of his tie.

“Excuse me?” Dean removes the earpiece from his ear, like that will help his hearing instead of just making him have to deal with his stupid handset. “Did I hear you correctly?”

“If you heard me say ‘nah’ then uh—yeah. You heard it right.”

Novak smells like he just smoked a joint, and he smells like he didn’t even make it outside to do it. Dean’s willing to bet that if he did a survey of every broom closet and bathroom in the whole of the Sandover building, he’d find the one that’s absolutely saturated with the skunky, shitty weed all Novak’s coworkers say he reeks of all day. He’s only been working at Sandover for two weeks.

“What, pray tell, does ‘nah’ mean, Novak?”

Novak shifts from where he’s sprawled bonelessly in the chair across from Dean’s desk. He’s got five o’clock shadow in the middle of the morning. Bags under his eyes that make it look like he was at a rager on a Sunday night. Dean’s not altogether convinced that he wasn’t. There’s virtually nothing on him in his file, which is particularly strange, because there should be a paper record of the calls he’s resolved here. There’s none.

While Dean was staring down at the heap of nothing that is Novak’s file, Novak had shifted until his hands were resting on Dean’s desk, until he was leaning up right into Dean’s personal space. When Dean looks up, he feels hot breath on his face. He sees Novak’s eyes so well, he notices the little flecks of darker blue in the sea of light. He also sees when his pupils contract, going to pinpoints in the flood of light from his office window.

“It means,” he breathes, husky and dark and right in Dean’s face. “ _Nah_.”

Dean flaps his mouth.

“Can I go back to work now?”

Dean flaps his mouth some more. Somewhere in the middle of all the flapping, he nods. Novak saunters out, gives him a flippant two-fingered salute through the window to his office.

When Dean looks down, he sees that he’s left a Novak-sized handprint in Dean’s zen garden.

Dean adjusts himself through his pants.

 

**Wednesday, Noon**

Novak is in the elevator when Dean is headed downstairs for his afternoon walk-instead-of-lunch. It’s arguably one of the busiest times for the archaic building’s already overtaxed lift system. When everyone is on their way in or out or headed down to the coffee shop on the first floor. It’s a minor miracle to catch an elevator alone with someone as it is. To catch an elevator alone with the way-too-hot, should-be-fired pain in his ass? That seems downright impossible.

The doors slide closed behind him, and Dean cradles his juice cleanse close to his chest and backs up into the closing elevator door. Novak sidles closer.

“You’re fired,” he says, preemptively. It’s half-hearted and weak and it makes a little smile curl at the corner of Novak’s pretty lips. He’s got a joint tucked behind his ear. Unsurprisingly, Novak ignores him.

“Is that your lunch?” Dean doesn’t say anything. He can see Novak’s ass in the mirrors that line the elevator. In some rare show of punctiliousness, he’s tucked in his shirt. Dean’s not sure if he’s envious or covetous when he thinks that you could bounce a quarter off that thing.

Novak waves his arm to catch Dean’s attention again. He grins a gummy grin when Dean blinks back to attention. “That’s a shitty lunch, Dean.”

“Director.”

“Director Dean.”

“Smith.”

“Smith Director Dean.”

“Now you’re just being obtuse.”

Novak shrugs, insouciant, and Dean narrows his eyes, realization striking him all at once.

“What were you doing up on the administrative floors?” He blinks. “And what were you doing—”

“Shh, shh.” Novak shrugs again, still with that gummy smile. Then, somewhere between the twelfth and thirteenth floor, he pounds the elevator’s _Stop_ button decisively with his fist. The carriage jerks once, then hangs listlessly. They can just barely hear the bustle of the office outside.

Dean whines, “Didn’t we _just_ do this?”

And Novak’s big grin simmers down to a heated little smirk as he rubs one of his big, calloused hands down the front of his own non-regulation blue jeans. Dean’s mouth waters.

“We’re just gonna have to keep trying until it takes.”

 

**Monday, 4 pm**

Dean blurts, “Sorry,” when he walks in on Novak fucking his own fist in the office supply closet on the twenty-second floor. Dean refreshes his supplies here every few weeks, because this is the only supply room with his very favorite Post-It notes. The old ones, from before they changed the quality of the adhesive.

Novak laughs, deep and throaty, and chokes off his cock at the base. It waves big and proud and red from between the teeth of his zipper.

“Are you apologizing to _me_?”

He’s standing, hunched over an out-of-commission copy machine, and there’s trails of precum drooling from the tip of his dick, onto the outgoing paper tray. He’s big, and uncut, and Dean just fired him a couple hours ago, so it doesn’t make all that much sense that he’s jerking it to a pile of staplers.

He’ll never know why he goes _in_ to close the door instead of going _out_ and closing the door behind him. And then firing Novak again while he’s not staring at his pretty dick.

Well. Who is he kidding, he knows why he does it. The door closes behind him with an audible _click_.

“Hey,” Novak says, running a finger under the crown of his cock, smearing the precum into his slit. His balls are up tight and close, the head of his dick is near purple, which tells Dean that he was probably here for a while before Dean came in. Probably holding himself off for a while. Probably waiting for Dean. “You know what I was thinking about just now?”

Dean stutters, “What?”

Novak must be getting close, because he’s biting his lip and making a show of it. He looks Dean right in the eye when he grabs hold of a thick red stapler and clutches it, white-knuckled, until it staples once. The staple drops onto the metal shelving with an audible _ping_.

“I was thinking of what you said this morning.”

Dean racks his brain for a second, looking for whatever it was amongst the scattered pieces of his cognitive function.

He licks his lips.

“Uh,” Dean says. “You’re fired?”

Novak’s hips stutter, pulsing his cock up twice into his fist, so the head pops in and out the ring of his thumb and forefinger.

“Say it again.”

“You’re—fired.”

Novak gasps and comes like that was permission. He comes and comes and comes, in sticky ropes that spray up the side of the printer and onto the supply room floor. Without even realizing it, or maybe he did, Dean’s pulled his own cock out, too. And he tugs at his own balls with one hand while he gives his dick a few utilitarian jerks.

Novak scrutinizes his dick.

“Of course you’re cut.”

Dean pulls back, affronted. Still painfully hard. “So?”

“I’m just wondering if there’s any part of you that isn’t straight-laced.”

Dean eyes him, pointedly throws his tie over his shoulder, and goes to town. It takes him an alarmingly short time to come.

After he’s finished watching, Novak zips himself back into his pants and says, “I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetheart.” He slaps Dean’s ass on the way out the door.

Novak’s probably halfway down the hallway before Dean gathers his thoughts enough to shout, “I’d better _not,_ Novak!” through the closet door after him.

He uses a pile of his favorite Post-It notes to clean his jizz off the floor.

 

**Thursday, Noon**

Novak appears at his office door with a pecan pie. There’s a war waging within Dean, constantly, when it comes to sweets, pie in particular, because if he took a treat every time someone had an office birthday or someone’s kids were selling cookies, he’d weigh about a thousand pounds. But it seems he’s actually physically incapable of saying no to Novak, so he takes a slice.

“I wanted to say thank you because I got a paycheck today, so apparently I’m still on payroll? So. Gracias, amigo.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but moans around the fork, and Novak watches him from across his desk with simmering eyes, a barely contained heat there below the surface.

“That’s more pornographic than watching you jerk it to Post-It notes.”

“Be _quiet_ about that,” Dean squawks, spraying pecan pie on one of Zachariah’s expense reports and then hurriedly wiping the crumbs with notes for his next meeting. “Shit.”

“Oooh,” Novak laughs. “Do I detect a little fire there? Did you say a _swear_?”

He doesn’t let Novak’s snark keep him from polishing off the rest of the pie with as much vigor as he did the first half.

“You know, you haven’t even told me I’m fired yet today. Would that change if I told you that pie was laced with THC?”

It takes him a moment to process, but then Dean’s vision narrows down to the empty plate in front of him, and he can feel the cold sweat surfacing on his skin. He swallows the very last bite, a massive lump already halfway down his throat, with an all-encompassing sense of dread. He has a meeting with all the higher-ups and the reps from Japan in two hours, which, if Dean’s prior experience with edibles is any indication, would be about the point when he lost his fucking mind.

He realizes he’s been silent for a moment while he panics, lost in the endless thrum of stress that is trying to maintain this persona all day, every day. He surfaces to Novak fucking _laughing_.

“Jesus you should have seen the look on your face. You look like someone just jacked the vibe in your ass to eleven in the middle of a dinner party.” Dean goes red as one of his beet juice cleanses. “Listen, I’m not in the business of drugging people against their will. The pie was fine, champ.” Most everything in Dean unclenches, except for the tiny part that—doesn’t.

He produces a massive brownie from god knows where, laying it on top of the desk, right beside the tiny zen garden that Dean never bothered to re-rake.

“ _That,_ however, is fucking _riddled_ with the stuff.”

And then Novak leaves to do whatever it is he does all day—god knows he’s not working—and he leaves the pot brownie, unassuming, on the desk in front of Dean.

Zachariah stops by an hour before the meeting to remind Dean of all the work he needs to have done for him in an hour’s time, and then he reminds Dean that he was _supposed_ to be laying off the sweets when he sees the brownie beside the computer monitor.

After Zachariah leaves, he takes a bite. And another bite. He polishes off nearly the whole thing with the same gusto he did the pecan pie. And he cares a lot about that until he doesn’t care at all.

He has just enough time to finish his boss’s work before the effects kick in, and then he doesn’t much care about what happens in the Japan meeting. About how giggling at the way Japanese people talk probably isn’t the way to win company favor. About how humiliating it is to have your boss pass your work off as his over and over and over.

And he doesn’t much care when Novak stops by after work to ride him in his office chair, either.

**Friday, The Previous Week, 10 pm**

“I thought I saw a light on in here,” a voice says, deep and gritty. “It’s late.”

Dean peeks blearily up from his computer screen and finds a disarmingly handsome tech support guy in a yellow polo leaning against his doorway. He looks disheveled, but Dean figures that’s pretty par for the course when you’re here until 10 pm on a Friday.

“Yeah. Nose to the grindstone, I guess. Didn’t really notice the time.” Dean blinks. “Aren’t you tech support? What are you still doing around?”

Disarmingly handsome tech guy shrugs.

“I got stoned and fell asleep in the break room.”

Dean laughs, because it’s obviously a joke.

“Well. Just be safe getting home I guess, uh—”

“Castiel.”

“Oh, uh. Novak. You’re the new hire.” Novak nods. “Well have a good weekend, Novak.”

Dean looks back to Zachariah’s expense report, because it’s late, and the matter should be done, because nothing is going to come of this, and right _now_ Zach’s numbers aren’t quite adding up in a way that’s definitely going to be Dean’s problem later.

“Would you like to have sex with me, Dean?” he says, and Dean has to blink himself out of his screen trance again. “We could do it here. Or you could come home with me.”

Dean sputters through a series of vehement denials, and Castiel just nods like he knew that was going to happen.

He says, “You really need to loosen up, Dean.”

And then he’s gone.

 

**Friday, 4 pm**

Zach’s a fucking creep anyway, always has been, but the women in skimpy bathing suits on his fucking screensaver toe a very skeezy line. And he might file an anonymous complaint with HR about that later on if he weren’t currently tendering his resignation from Sandover in the form of getting his ass plowed on his douchebag boss’s desk.

“ _Cas_.” He pants, cock leaking onto Zachariah’s dumb desk blotter while Cas pounds into him from behind. Dean knocks the weird kewpie dolls Zach keeps by his pencil cup off the desk because they’re fucking _staring_ at him, and then he checks the gold-plated timepiece that thanks Zachariah for ten years of loyal service at Sandover. Then he knocks that off too.

“He’s not done with the follow-up Japan meeting for another ten minutes.” Dean says, letting out soft little _uh_ s between words with Cas’s every thrust. “So you better ease up or I’m gonna come before then.”

He can hear Cas’s grin in his voice, even behind him, even compromised as he is.

“What did I tell you about loosening up, Dean?”

Then he can feel the grin when Cas leans forward, mouths at his neck, and slows his pace to a languid, powerful roll.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean pants into his arm. “At least now he’ll have to do one fucking thing his own damn self. Because god knows I can’t seem to fire you.”

 

**Monday, 9 am**

Zachariah pops into his office early, but luckily, Dean’s gotten there earlier, because he’s predicted this, because he always predicts this.

“Good stuff, Dean-o.”

Dean pauses, halfway through writing up Zachariah’s latest proposal. He needs it for a meeting later today. Then Dean needs to write up his own.

“Good stuff?”

“Absolutely. You know you’re so close to that promotion, Dean-o.” He sits in the chair opposite him, taps his fingers on the edge of Dean’s desk, and Dean smiles. “But, listen. There’s just one thing I need you to take care of first. One little loose cog that I need you to pull out of this well-oiled machine we’ve built. You follow?”

Dean blinks. Smooths a hand compulsively down his tie.

He says, “Anything, sir.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me [on tumblr](http://schmerzerling.tumblr.com).


End file.
